


A Weapon They Made You

by CrippledMuse



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Depersonalization, Dissociation, Dysphoria, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 10:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12386235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrippledMuse/pseuds/CrippledMuse
Summary: Genji looks in the mirror. An abomination stares back.





	A Weapon They Made You

**Author's Note:**

> This was written a while ago as an experiment in second person, something I'd never really done before. But I was heavily inspired by a friend's writing, and gave it a whirl. Incredibly headcanon heavy. I love Genji so much, so obviously I must torture him. Surely you understand. Enjoy.

* * *

 

> **It Was a Weapon They Made You**
> 
> **So a Weapon You Became**

 

The lights in the bathroom are going out, or maybe there’s a faulty wire, you’re not really sure what they’re using to power these things anymore. Not in this type of facility anyway. You’ve made a call to the maintenance department to fix it, but you’ve forgotten how long ago. You hardly have a need for this room as it is. But cruelly, it reminds you with its mere existence of mundane things that were once so second nature that you took it for granted. Now you suddenly miss them, for it’s what made you human.

So for now, the light flickers, strobing in a manner that makes your eyes ache when they try to focus. It will right itself soon. It always does. Either way, you can’t bring yourself to care. You’re going through the motions this morning anyway, even if you’re leaning over the sink to keep yourself upright. It’s dizzying. The world is spinning on it’s axis and you and feel every turn, lurching you sideways as you hurtle through space.

There’s a comb sitting on the edge of the sink. Maybe it’s always been there. You don’t know. You don’t even remember the last time you combed your hair. Once it was something you took pride in, running your fingers through it’s soft thickness, guiding to lay in a way that was just right. But now it sits in a dark mess on top of your head. You only pay attention to it when it falls in your eyes. But you take the comb anyway, as if drawn to it.

Your fingers run over the teeth in an idle fashion, but you can’t feel their sting. They growl at you, yet the sound becomes nothing but white noise.

A man stares at you from between the gaps in the teeth, as if he’s peering through the bars of a cage. The moment you look at him your eyes lock. He stares at you with hollow eyes from his prison, begging you to set him free. But you won’t. You can’t stand to look at him.

So you look away. He does too. But you catch him out of your peripheral. You lower your left hand, the one that’s still flesh and bone, pocked with the marks where it had been torn apart only to be sewn back together again. He lowers his, too, with its same, ugly landscape. He repeats your movements. Every tilt of your head, every tap of your finger against the side of the porcelain sink, every roll of your eye.

It’s a mirror, the voice in the back of your mind whispers. It’s You.

But it’s not you.

That thing looking back at you across the glass is not you.

But he is you.

You don’t want him.

Maybe you did once. Maybe you wanted it when you were laying there, desperate and dying, clawing at the fraying threads of life for some piece to hold onto. Maybe you wanted it, when an angel came to you and held out her hand offering you a second chance. How her wings glowed gold in the darkness that pervaded your vision, your consciousness. And then you remind yourself that you never really believed in God.

You hate him.

You hate him for what he’s become, this abomination that refuses to meet your eyes again.

You hate him.

You hate-

You hate the ones that did this to you. You hate the ones who drove you off that ledge, barreling like a juggernaut at full velocity. They chewed away your honor to save their own, like they forced you to every time you unsheathed your blade. And then you weren’t good enough anymore. So you stopped fitting to their mold. You were a liability, something useless that needed to be discarded.

You hate the brother that betrayed you. You gave him everything you had until you had nothing left, and yet still he turned his back to you, falling into the trap they laid so effortlessly. And then he tore you limb from limb. Still he took, and you had nothing else to give. So he took your life.

You hate the ones who put you back together, welded with metal and fitted with machinery until you were nothing but a tool for them to use. A tool of deadly precision born of lies and false promises. You would know all about lies, wouldn’t you? They spilled like soured honey from your pretty lips all the time.

But it hits you then, and your soul leaves your body. You’re staring at the man in the mirror again.

He stares back at you.

Those eyes are no longer empty. They’re full of a fire that consumes his very soul. Its flames threaten to sear out of his pupils, and spread to you instead.

You hate him. But not as much as he hates you.

He knows what you know. He knows what hits you now as you stare into his eyes, those eyes that draw you in to burn with him. It burns. It’s agony. And you’re being flayed alive all over again.

You hate him. But not as much as you hate yourself.

You hate what you’ve become. This abomination of man and machine. Both and neither, some horrific amalgamation.

You hate the ones that wouldn’t let you die. But you begged not them to. You took their one sided gift blinded by your desperation to take back what was stolen from you. You gave yourself to this machine, and now it takes up every bit of you. You refused to die.

You hate the ones who killed you. You hate them, but you did nothing. You sat by and let them make monster out of you while they nurtured the monster inside your brother. You tried to warn him once. But he stopped listening. You stopped trying. You gave when you couldn’t save him. So what made you think you could save yourself?

You hate the man who glares at you. But he hates you more. Because he knows you have no one to blame for this but yourself. How selfish you are. How god damn selfish.

You scream at him. He screams back. Your voices are metallic and hollow shrieking. There is nothing human left. Only the sound of your demons clawing themselves out of your metal throat. And they echo across the tile, resounding and compounding in some vicious symphony that threatens to shatter your eardrums.

You strike him. The same instant, he lunges for you.

The mirror cracks and spider webs beneath your fists.

But you don’t stop.

You don’t stop until he stops staring back at you.

And the glass rains over you.

Everything falls quiet.

Your hand is bleeding. The one that’s still flesh and bone. You stare at it, watching as the blood trickles its way down your skin. It’s hypnotizing as the trickle becomes a river. It’s spilling down your arm. It puddles on the floor. But you keep watching it.

Funny isn’t it?

You didn’t know you could still bleed.


End file.
